


The Spectre on the Seashore

by bluerighthand



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fever, Gunshot Wounds, Hallucinations, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Folklore - Freeform, Multi, Mystery, Past Relationship(s), you know you're ill when you have the same symptoms as a gunshot wound infection fml
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-05 01:30:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16358057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerighthand/pseuds/bluerighthand
Summary: Shooting Alfie Solomons on a deserted beach in Margate had seemed the right course of action. For business reasons or in bad blood, that’s what he’d said. But when the lights all flickered out, and the screaming started, Tommy began to wonder if Alfie was truly dead after all.To be safe I've tagged this with the 'graphic descriptions of violence' warning, although there's not much actual violence going on, just nasty injuries.





	The Spectre on the Seashore

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't really in the mood to write my fluffy kid fics this month, so here is a Halloween inspired mystery horror thing, with lots of distressed/hurt Tommy (I figured if I'm distressed and ill, it's only fair he is too)
> 
> Warnings: horror, blood, injuries with sort of graphic descriptions, hallucinations, dark themes, innocent character getting injured (tw: cuts)

He was first aware of the pain. Sharp and incessant, clawing against the black. He took a breath, then another, lips cracked and dry, until he had enough air in his lungs to cry out. The wind swallowed the sound greedily, whistling through his ears as his fingers fumbled through the sand for his gun. The biting cold of the steel against his palm calmed the uncomfortable thudding of his heart, and Tommy Shelby opened his eyes.

Night was approaching fast, the brilliant blue sky of the day had transformed to a muggy grey, quickly deepening to black. He turned his head towards the sea, neck stiff, to find the insidious tide much closer than he expected. Waves which had previously lapped against the shore were now speeding in purposefully, stealing sand away to be lost in the depths. Tommy groaned, gingerly feeling his side. His clothes were soaked through, and though wishful thinking said it could be spray from the sea, he knew it was blood.

He sat up blearily, expecting to see another dark figure slumped on the shore. But there was no one there.

Tommy blinked, clutching his side where the bullet had ripped through his body. He rubbed his eyes, forgetting the sand on his knuckles and cursing under his breath at the sting of the grit. He stumbled slightly in his attempt to stand, knees buckling weakly against the pain.

A stain marred the sand where Alfie had fallen. It was seemingly the only sign he’d ever been there, and Tommy fell to his knees beside it, reaching out to touch. His fingers came away red.

His first thought had been that Alfie had survived the shot and staggered away, leaving him on the beach to die. But the amount of blood splattered around him suggested otherwise, and there weren’t many soldiers in France who survived such a wound. Tommy sifted through the sand for a bullet, not entirely sure what it would mean if he found one. His hands came up empty, and he clutched them back to his side, scanning the ground around him for footprints.

There were a set coming towards the stain, ending where Alfie had stood hours before. The strong wind had obscured them slightly, but Tommy could still make out heel prints, even in the waning light. Had someone taken his body away?

Hauling a big man like Alfie across the sand would leave tracks. A long continuous drag mark perhaps, or several sets of footprints as a group of men carried him off. Tommy swore there were no such marks in the sand. There was no sign of the dog either, no paw prints pattering away from the scene. It had certainly been big enough to drag Alfie away, but again, there were no such marks.

He glanced out to sea, the unsteady rising and falling of the waves unnerving him slightly. Tommy shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut in irritation. It was just the pain playing tricks on him. He got to his feet again, swaying dangerously. The chill of the northern wind had settled deep in his chest, and he coughed, the movement aggravating his side.

He needed to get to a hospital. His eyes flicked down to the bloodstain again. Would a hospital be safe if Alfie were alive? If he’d survived Tommy’s shot, that’s surely the only place he could be, most likely surrounded by a large group of his men and just as many guns.

No, Tommy needed to get back to Birmingham.

In the hour it had taken him to stagger off the beach and find his car in the dark, Tommy was retching. His face had gone a ghoulish grey, lips whitening as he dropped to his knees on the pavement, leaning against the car door.

He reached up as best he could and knocked on the window, but there was no movement from his driver inside. Useless. He knocked again, letting out a low grunt as his side protested. Still nothing. He crawled forwards, knees scraping on the concrete and opened the back door, climbing up and collapsing inside.

Peter, his lazy excuse for a driver, jolted awake from where he’d been asleep against the wheel. Turning quickly, he stammered out an apology, which Tommy waved away. Peter’s fingers shook as he started the engine, eyes flicking to the blood on Tommy’s jacket in the rear-view mirror.

Tommy had been reluctant about hiring the man; he preferred to drive himself, but he was grateful for it now, despite Peter’s shortcomings. The thought of staying awake and alert through the night was not an appealing one, and a small amount of his pain dissipated as his head met the leather seats.

“Shall I take you to the hospital, sir?” Peter asked, eager to please. Tommy shook his head.

“No, no. Take me home”. The young man hesitated. “To Small Heath” Tommy confirmed.

“Sir, I really think you should see a doctor, it will be early morning by the time we rea-”

“I’m not paying you to tell me what you think” Tommy hissed. “Take me to Small Heath”. Peter nodded, cowed, pulling away from the curb and down the road. Tommy was unconscious by the time they rounded the bend.

Hours later, Tommy awoke with a start, pain ripping through his side as he flinched away from the hand on his shoulder. His head was pounding, and a rush of dizziness overtook him as he sat up, but he was relieved to see the blood on his jacket was mostly dried.

“We’re here, Sir” Peter said, backing away. Tommy reluctantly accepted his help out of the car, but refused to be walked to the door. He wasn’t going to feel like a disobedient child being marched home again.

The lane was quiet, most of Small Heath still sleeping. Mrs Ferris tottered down the road, giving Tommy a suspicious glare as she set down her shopping bags to unlock her door. 

He knocked at number six, watching Peter reluctantly drive away, and a minute later Finn answered the door in his pyjamas. Tommy wished he hadn’t for the way his brother’s eyes widened, mouth falling open in shock. He glanced at the small mirror in the hallway, and caught a glimpse of a hollow eyed man, pale skin emphasising the red of his blood.

Arthur, holding a glass of water, stopped dead at the end of the hall at the sight of him, as if he was a ghost. He sprang into action once Tommy’s steps faltered, holding him upright and guiding him into a chair in the kitchen. Finn had fetched Polly, who came down in her night dress and peeled away Tommy’s coat. She swallowed as she saw the large bloodstain on his jacket. His movement had irritated the shot, and a dark patch of wet blood was spreading across the ruined material.

Finn was sent to find Jeremiah, as Ada reluctantly pulled herself out of bed and downstairs at all the commotion. Tommy explained what happened as clearly as he could.

“He was just gone” he said, sometime later. He’d repeated the line numerous times, now and it seemed to be all that was left to say. Arthur and Polly frowned. They’d only just managed to beat Changretta and the New York Mafia, with disastrous consequences. Arthur wasn’t sure any of them would survive another gang intent on murder so soon.

“Are you sure he didn’t get washed out to sea?” said Ada.

“The tide hadn’t come in yet” groaned Tommy. “I think we should all stay here, until the situation is clear”. Polly agreed, but Arthur muttered something about Linda under his breath.

“It’s for her own safety, and Billy’s” said Polly. “If she doesn’t like it, get Ada to have another word with her”. A strained silence fell upon the kitchen, and Arthur looked as if he would have protested if Tommy hadn’t let out a low groan of pain, drawing his attention back to his brother.

Jeremiah arrived, a panting Finn in tow, and Tommy’s jacket and shirt were removed.

“Bloody hell” said Arthur, staring at the wound. “He got you good there, Tommy”. With the gun hidden in his coat pocket, and only a split second to aim, Alfie’s bullet had gone into him at a strange angle. There wasn’t a neat bullet hole wound, but a long angry gash in his stomach. Tommy felt bile rise in his throat at the prospect of Jeremiah trying to extract the damn thing, but he knew it had to be done. Chances of infection were high with a messy injury like this, especially as he’d been shot over twelve hours ago, and Tommy suspected he’d need stitches.

“How could you be so stupid” cursed Polly, wringing her hands. Tommy knew it was bad then. She’d be hitting him otherwise. “You should have gone straight to the hospital”. He started to explain that a group of very displeased men would’ve likely be waiting for him, but was cut off by his own shout of pain as Jeremiah inspected the wound with his tongs.

“I think this will do it” he said, grabbing a second, thinner, instrument from his bag. “Best to lie down Tommy”. Tommy clambered onto the table, dropping gratefully onto his back on the wood. Relief spread through his tired limbs temporarily, until he felt Arthur’s hands brace on his shoulders, and Polly’s circle his wrists.

Extracting the bullet was a long and bloody process.

Tommy was thrashing instinctively against Arthur’s hold, the ache in his head and slicing agony in his side almost unbearable. Jeremiah was growing increasingly worried. He’d seen injuries like this in the war, and it was becoming clear that the bullet had changed paths or direction inside Tommy, and would not be located easily.

Ada rushed off for water and bandages, but Finn hovered in the doorway, unsure of what to do. He wanted to help, but preferably not get _too_ close to where his brother was screaming bloody murder on the kitchen table. Arthur told him to make himself useful, fetch some alcohol, and he returned a few minutes later, a cheap bottle clutched under one arm and some of Tommy’s favourite whiskey under the other.

Tommy gulped the drink down, almost choking in the process, and Jeremiah used the distraction to dig a little deeper. The bottle would have smashed to the floor, if Finn hadn’t caught it, and Tommy let out an almost inhuman cry as Jeremiah finally, finally pulled out the bullet. Tommy collapsed back to the table from where he’d arched, spine curling, breathy sobs wracking his body. He was drenched in sweat, and could hardly hear his family’s sighs of relief and Jeremiah’s triumph over the blood rushing in his ears.

Leaning up on his elbows, he took another swig of whiskey, cursing as Arthur used the opportunity to pour liquid from the cheap bottle all over his stomach. Jeremiah was saying something about stitches, and Polly agreed, Tommy groaning as he was forced back down onto the table.

This pain, although not as terrible as the extraction, was harder in other ways. The repetitive sting of the needle as it drew together the tender and swollen skin eventually reduced Tommy to tears. They spilled over his knuckles, and wound a path down his sandy skin, wiping clean a thin trail. While Arthur and Finn were kind enough to look away, Polly was kind enough to not.

“Almost there” she soothed. Tommy nodded shakily, his thoughts drifting back to the vanishing body on the shore. Jeremiah secured the last stitch, and poured some more alcohol over the wound, making Tommy convulse.

“It’s done, it’s done” said Arthur, helping Tommy sit up and gripping the back of his neck firmly.

“Good man” said Jeremiah, “there’s a token for you”. Tommy looked to where he gestured, spotting the slightly clouded glass of water on the side.

The liquid magnified the bullet, making it large and grotesque in the bloody water. Tommy could see scratches across its surface, and fished it out, expecting to see his name staring back at him. Instead, there were three characters, in what he supposed was Hebrew.

אמת

The end of the bullet was slightly curled from the blast, one of the characters half eaten away by the metal. The scratches forming the other two were deeper, like the carver became vicious, more purposeful. Forcing the letters down into the bullet until death itself was engraved. It slipped from his fingers and back into the water, and Tommy dropped back to the table, the events of the past day catching up to him.

He felt weak and shaky, the hollow ache of hunger pulsing in his gut. Polly had offered to draw him a bath, but Tommy shook his head. The steam would do nothing for his dizziness. Instead, she brought a damp cloth, gently wiping away the blood and sand smeared across his face. Tommy was too exhausted to care.

After a bloody awful trip up the stairs, supported by both Arthur and Jeremiah, Tommy collapsed into his old bed.

“Where’s Charlie?” he murmured, as Arthur pulled a blanket over his shoulders.

“He’s fine, he’s over the road with Linda and all the other rascals”.

“Don’t let him see me like this” he said, and when Arthur didn’t answer he pressed the matter, trying to sit up. Words he’d fought so hard against as a teenager circled in his head.

_You’re so much like your father, Thomas._

With the morphine, and the opium, he’d come close. Far too close. Arthur pushed him back to the sheets firmly.

“I won’t brother. You get some rest, eh?”.

Tommy fell asleep almost immediately, but woke a few hours later, body racked with chills. There was a deep pounding in his head, and he reached for his glass of water with shaking hands, flinching from the crash as it fell from the table. Alfie was sat on the edge of his bed, holding a cold flannel to his burning forehead. He was smiling at Tommy softly, and stroking his sweaty hair back from his face.

There was a small spot on Alfie’s cheek, which grew and grew, until Tommy was staring through the bullet hole he’d fired, dried blood covering Alfie’s face. His hand, which had been gently caressing the side of Tommy’s neck now latched around his throat, fingers digging in painfully. Tommy cried out, tried to break free, but his aching muscles were too limp, arms dropping back to the bed pathetically. The blue of Alfie’s eyes had turned milky and white, and his skin went an ashen grey.

_He’d done this, he’d done this, he’d done this._

Black spots appeared in Tommy’s vision and he welcomed them, not wanting to see the man he’d destroyed. Looking in a mirror would have the same affect.

“It’s alright, you’re okay” someone was saying, and suddenly he could breathe again, taking gasping lungfuls of air. There were hands on his face, and he shuddered, trying to let himself be calmed but feeling the echo of those grey hands around his throat.

It was too hot, too cold, too much to touch someone, so he pushed them away, crying as Alfie watched him from the corner of the room. Something damp was pressed to his forehead, his chest, and he shuddered, fingers weakly gripping the edge of the duvet. Hazy voices faded in and out, but Tommy could hear his mother above the rest, singing the lullaby that used to send him to sleep. He had the same tune on a little music box, tucked away in a draw.

He stopped twisting in the sheets to listen, but then she was gone, replaced by the hum of his first lover, who’d never returned from the Great War. Freddie was beside him, and then they were in the tunnels again, notes morphing into scraping shovels as Danny led the way to hell. The supporting beam splintered, and he was paralysed again, unable to do anything but scream.

“Tommy!”. Dirt piled onto his body, filled his eyes, his mouth, cutting off his voice.

“Tommy!”. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t-.

“Tommy!”

He opened his eyes. This time, it was Arthur and Polly above him, Ada frantically dipping a cloth into a bucket of water.

“Tommy, can you hear me?” asked Polly, pressing a hand to his cheek. “He’s cooler” she said, her relief echoed by his siblings. Tommy blinked, trying to clear his head. Fuck. His wound must be infected. He nodded, a late answer to Polly’s question. Was she real?

He drifted back to a not entirely peaceful, but less fitful sleep than the last, and whenever he woke there was someone beside him. He refused any food, couldn’t stomach it, but sipped a few mouthfuls of water each time.

A small mercy came when his fever broke three days later, sweat dripping from his forehead as he kicked the blankets away, curling up on his side and waiting for his strength to return. He managed to make it downstairs the next day. His limbs were still weak and shaky, but it was good to be up, made him feel less of a burden. His appetite was still low, but Polly manoeuvred him into a chair and placed a full English in front of him, making sure he ate at least a few mouthfuls of everything.

After a week of long baths (as soon as Jeremiah had given the okay), playing cards with Arthur, and drinking far more tea than whiskey, he felt considerably better. His side wasn’t healed yet, but it was on the way.

Tommy woke on Sunday morning feeling particularly refreshed. He’d read to Charlie the previous night, tucked him in, managed some paperwork from the office and noted down some ideas for a new, sweeter, gin to ship to New York. He dressed slowly, not bothering with all his shirt buttons or his hat, and opened the door to the smell of bacon wafting up from the kitchen.

Something leathery hit him in the face as he left the room, and he flinched, jerking backwards and cursing as he slammed into the doorframe, tearing his side. He looked up, clutching his bandage. A leather collar swung in the entranceway like a noose. It was hung from a piece of rope, attached to the wall with a nail. Tommy tugged at the collar, and it came away with the lead, the nail still firmly embedded in the ripped wallpaper. A silver nametag jangled in his hands, and Tommy turned it over, baffled and slightly concerned.

**C Y R I L**

There was a horrible dropping sensation in his stomach, and Tommy stared at the collar, a deep crease in his forehead. Cyril had been Alfie’s dog. Who had done this? Why? Was it some kind of message? How had they got it? The dog had vanished into the night just like Alfie. Could it be a different collar?

Tommy sighed, still grimacing in pain. It felt like he’d ripped his stitches. Had it been Alfie who put it there? He pushed the thought away quickly; he was no longer a scared child who believed the ghost stories Arthur told him after Aunt Polly turned the lights out. Alfie was surely dead. It would just be Arthur or Finn messing around, nothing more. Anger rose within him, a culmination of stresses from the past few weeks. This wasn’t something to joke about.

“Finn” he yelled over the bannisters. His brother’s face appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “What the fuck is this?”. Finn climbed the stairs, rather hastily at Tommy’s tone, and stopped on the landing in front of him, looking perplexedly at the collar and lead. “What is this?” Tommy repeated, holding them out.

“I don’t know” said Finn.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me” said Tommy, digging his other hand under his jacket to feel the bandages through his shirt. The material was wet. “I know you like playing practical jokes these days, eh? Where’d you get it from?”.

“I’m not lying” protested Finn, “I didn’t do anything”. Tommy raised his hand, jabbing Finn in the chest and leaving a spot of red on his shirt.

“What happened on that beach is still a mystery” he said, “so I don’t want shit like this anywhere near me, alright?”. Finn shook his head.

“I didn’t do it Tom” he said.

 “Right” said Tommy, clenching his teeth and leaning over the bannister again.

“John” he shouted. His heart clenched painfully a second later, realising what he’d done. His head snapped towards Finn, who was staring resolutely at his feet, blinking rapidly. Tommy sighed and leant against the railing, feeling his anger release somewhat as guilt overtook him.

“Go and fetch Jeremiah” he said to Finn, who nodded, starting down the stairs. Tommy squeezed his shoulder as he passed, dropping the collar to the floor.

A week later, all stitched up and doused with alcohol, Tommy Shelby stepped off the train as it pulled into Camden station. Walking into the territory of a man he’d just shot was usually something he avoided. But the disappearing body on the shore, the engraving on the bullet meant to kill him, and then the collar kept Tommy’s mind ticking late into the night.

He had to know. Had to know if Alfie was really dead, if his bullet had run true, which word he’d engraved so forcefully onto the cursed bullet burning a hole in his pocket. Almost three weeks had passed since that day on the beach, and there had been no word from London. Nobody had telephoned, written, or shot at him. The silence was unnerving.

Tommy exited the station, and came face to face with Alfie Solomons.

 

 

The missing poster was large, plastered across the noticeboard. Glancing down the lane, Tommy saw at least a dozen others.

Missing. You wouldn’t tack missing posters to every surface for a man confirmed dead. Frustration coursed through his veins. This didn’t prove anything. Alfie could have been stolen away by someone else, an opportunistic body snatcher maybe, or some other gang. There was no reason to assume his own men knew what had become of him. But what about the collar? If it wasn’t Arthur or Finn, then how had it got there?

There were too many questions, and not enough answers.

He was greeted at the bakery, not by the barrel of a gun but by a sullen worker, who shut the door behind Tommy and continued working as if he’d never arrived. Most ignored him as he passed, and those who didn’t merely regarded him with disinterest. In near silence they seemed focused on their tasks, a stark contrast to the bustling business he’d visited previously. Tommy wasn’t stopped or questioned until he reached Alfie’s office. Tommy thumbed over a scratch he’d made in the door during one of their arguments, before opening it without knocking.

Ollie was sat, or rather slumped, at the desk, lethargically sifting through some papers. He looked stressed, dark circles under his eyes and curly hair even messier than Tommy remembered. It made him look older. At Tommy’s intrusion he started, jumping up and laying a hand over the papers protectively, like that would do anything. Anyway, it wasn’t his papers Tommy was interested in.

“Tommy Shelby?” said Ollie, uncertainly.

“Ollie” he replied, pulling out a chair opposite the desk and making himself comfortable. Ollie stared at him, nonplussed.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Have a seat” said Tommy in response. Ollie sat obediently, then realised what he’d done and rose to his feet again, gesturing at the door with a put out expression.

“You can’t just-, you don’t have an appointment”. Tommy raised his eyebrows, not moving from his seat. Ollie dropped into the chair again, resigning himself to deal with whatever it was Tommy wanted. The whole business was failing without Alfie. Sales had dropped significantly, connections were disappearing, and the workers were getting shifty. Word had gone round, and they were worried they might not have a job much longer. It wasn’t unlike Alfie to disappear occasionally, popping up again a few days later, but he’d never let the company suffer like this. Where the fuck was he? It had been long enough now to start fearing the worst.

“Alfie’s not here” he said.

“I know” said Tommy. Did he though?

“Then…”

“Can you read this?” Tommy asked, fishing the bullet from his inside pocket. Ollie took it, holding it up to the light.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, the confusion evident in his tone.

“Just tell me what it says” Tommy said impatiently, voice low.

“Emet” said Ollie. “It means truth”. Tommy felt the tight knot in his chest unravel somewhat. Truth? It wasn’t a curse after all.

“Why would _someone_ ” said Tommy, choosing his words carefully, “put truth on a bullet?”

“It’s a folklore thing” Ollie said reluctantly, clearly wanting to get on with his work. Tommy prompted him to continue, unperturbed. Ollie sighed, and shoved the papers aside.

“Rabbis made the golem out of earth or clay. They’re like us, in shape anyway, but much bigger and stronger”. Tommy nodded, though was at a loss as to why Alfie had wanted him to know this story.

“What does that have to do with truth?” he asked.

“They were brought to life when the rabbi wrote אמת, truth, on its forehead, or by writing a shem on paper and placing it in its mouth”.

“A shem?”

“A name of God. They worked for the rabbi, and protected the community from outsiders” said Ollie.

“What happened to them?” pressed Tommy, frustrated. There had to be more to it than this. Or did there? If there was one person who could send him on a wild chase leading nowhere from beyond the grave, it was Alfie.

“The rabbis lost control of them” said Ollie. “They started killing those they were made to protect, destroying whole communities. They’re inhuman”. Tommy frowned, pondering the story. They killed those they were made to protect. He and Alfie had been allies once. Pledged to protect each other from the likes of Sabini, and Changretta. And Tommy had put a bullet in his head. Was he Alfie’s golem? Was that what the dead man was trying to say with his carved bullet?

The more Tommy thought about it, the less it made sense.

 _Alfie_ had been the one to betray Tommy. The first time, Michael and Arthur had ended up in prison, the latter to be hanged in the name of the king. Billy Kitchen and two others were murdered, and their control over London had almost been lost, all so Alfie and Sabini could break bread again. Then there was Charlie, snatched from his very arms by The Odd Fellows. He remembered the bloody argument they’d had, Alfie insisting he hadn’t crossed a line.

By the last time however, Alfie had undoubtedly done just that. There was no route back down the mountain of corpses. The image of Arthur’s body on the floor, blood dripping from his sliced throat rushed to the forefront of his mind, and he pushed it away, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Alfie had been the one at fault.

But maybe, Tommy thought regretfully, the message was referring not to the protection of an ally, but to that of a lover.

He hadn’t intended to end up in bed with Alfie Solomons. Not the first time anyway. But something kept enticing him back. And then it had evolved into something, something more than a roll in the sheets and a signature on paper.

It became cheek kisses, packets of his favourite cigarettes appearing in his pockets, holding hands in back alleys and laughing like teenagers where nobody would see them. It had been simple before, but there they were.

And then Grace had returned from America, with her soft skin and her blonde hair and that smile that did things to Tommy’s insides. Alfie’s betrayals made more sense after what Tommy had done to him.

He didn’t have regrets – he kept telling himself that, but late at night when the sheets were cold and Grace was gone and Alfie had left him, he wished things had turned out differently. He had Charlie of course, that was the only good thing to come out of this whole mess.

“You see here” said Ollie, pointing to where the blast had eaten one of the characters away. Pulled out of his thoughts, Tommy looked. “Met” Ollie read. “Means death”. Tension flickered in Tommy’s jaw. This made more sense.

“If you removed the aleph, א, from the golem’s forehead, or took the shem from its mouth, it would die”.

“Truth and death” contemplated Tommy, taking the bullet back and rolling it between his fingers. “How would that kill them?”.

“If they lost their truth of self, they no longer knew God” said Ollie. Tommy scoffed loudly, but quietened at the flash of hurt on Ollie’s face. Alfie knew he didn’t believe. This couldn’t all be an elaborate conquest to turn him to God, could it? Polly had tried hard enough when he was a kid, and even though this was a different religion, it still wasn’t going to happen. “Is that all?” asked Ollie, glumly surveying the mountain of paperwork he’d shoved to one side.

Tommy stood. Had this been a waste of time? He’d found out what the bullet said, but it hadn’t really led him any closer to finding out what happened to Alfie. Only churned up those feelings of guilt he’d buried so deeply.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Ollie. Tommy stopped in the doorway, turning back.

“I don’t know” he answered, and for once in his life, he was being completely honest.

 

 

Things were quiet for the next few days. The family lay low in Small Heath, answering the telephone and taking bets, accompanied by a constant stream of complaints by Linda. This in turn caused Arthur to complain about still being stuck here, and after everyone else kicked off, Tommy began to question it himself. Surely it was safe now, to go back to the country? He couldn’t endanger Charlie, or his nieces and nephews, he had to be sure.

But there’d been nothing. Still no shots had been fired, no equivalents of the black hand had come through the door. Arthur accused him of being paranoid, which at this point, Tommy was forced to agree with. Not that he’d tell Arthur that.

It was a Friday evening, and the bustle of the shop was steadily petering away. Ten or eleven customers were placing the last bets of the day, with Arthur and Scudboat manning the floor. As Linda was currently getting drunk across the road with Lizzie, nobody had told the kids to go to bed, despite it being almost ten. Some were playing quietly in the corner, but Charlie and Karl were weaving through the tables, deep in some complicated war game.

Polly was sorting through files in the office, and Tommy signed the last document on his pile with a flourish, pleased to be done with work for the evening. Leaning back in his chair, he lit a cigarette, staring up at the cracked paintwork on the ceiling.

He inhaled, glancing down at his cigarette when no smoke came. It had gone out. Sighing, Tommy got out his lighter again, wondering if he’d actually lit it properly the first time.

There was a slam from across the shop, sending everyone quiet for a moment, the front door latch clinking from where it had been slid across the now closed door. The nearest person to the door was Arthur, who was staring at the chain in utter confusion.

The flame of Tommy’s lighter flickered, and the lights overhead flickered with it. Polly met his eyes from across the office, and Tommy had just risen to his feet when every light in the shop went out, plunging them into total darkness.

 

Someone groaned loudly as their coins fell clinking to the floor, and several other customers muttered complaints under their breath. There was a loud thud from across the room, probably something falling from a table, and a baby, most likely Billy, began to cry.

The cuckoo clock on the wall chimed ten, closing time, and when the last call had sounded a scream ripped through the darkness.

Tables and chairs scraped across the floor as people stood, twisting around in confusion or demanding to know what was happening. More children began to cry, and Tommy thought he heard Charlie call out for him. Tommy shuffled across the office, arms stretched out in front of him, reaching for the door. He bumped his shin on the low coffee table, cursing at the pain. A glass shattered, and more cries went up from the shop, but above it all that terrible scream went on and on.

Polly found his hand in the darkness and squeezed it tight, fingers cold and clammy. Tommy could hear Charlie clearly now, and he dropped Polly’s hand, feeling across the wood for the door handle.

Splintering sounded from across the room, and the front door burst open, people surging towards the weak light. The faint orange glow from the streetlamps enabled Tommy to make out some shapes in the gloom. An upturned table, a few shards of broken glass catching the light, but not his son.

Another figure caught Tommy’s eye amongst the chaos. The silhouette was tall, impossibly tall, and Tommy realised the person must be standing on one of the tables. They were standing stock still, unmoved by the tide of people now pushing towards the door. Tommy looked to his left, but he could hardly make Polly out against the black. He stepped forwards, until he was pressed against the glass of the office, eyes straining to get a better look.

It was a man. He was slightly hunched, and leaning on something long and thin. A cane. His other arm hung at his side, and he didn’t so much as twitch even as someone tripped over a chair leg and crashed into the table. No one else seemed to have noticed him. The screaming, was louder, piercing and painful to hear, increasing the panic as people shouted in the dark.

“Polly–” Tommy started, turning back towards her.

There was a flicker, and the lights in the betting shop came back on. He whipped around to where the man had been, but there was no one there.

The screaming had come to an abrupt end.

“Did you see that?” Tommy asked. Polly shielded her eyes from the light as she took in the mess. Chairs were lying haphazardly on the ground, coins rolling across the wooden floorboards, paper and betting slips scattered around the room. Arthur and Scudboat stood in the middle of the carnage, and the few remaining customers quickly staggered from the shop.

All the kids had run across the road in the panic, and Linda was reminded why drinking in excess was a sin as she attempted to deal with a multitude of screaming children. The window Tommy had been pressed against moments before had a long crack running down the glass.

“See what?” Polly said distractedly, opening the door and marching into the shop.

“Who was that screaming?” she demanded. The door to the living room was kicked open with a bang, and Finn entered the shop, supporting Ada, who was leaning heavily on him and sobbing. Blood was dripping down her arm and onto the floor.

“Ada” cried Polly, rushing to her. “Jesus”.

“What the fuck happened?” said Arthur, looking to Finn. Ada had sunk into a chair, and Polly had already grabbed a clean shirt from the laundry basket, wrapping it tightly around her arm.

“We were” Finn gestured vaguely behind him, “I locked the door, like usual, but when the lights went out someone got into the room. I couldn’t see who it was, but Ada started screaming. I tried to-, I couldn’t find her in the dark. I’m sorry, I tried” said Finn, almost desperately.

“It’s okay Finn” sniffed Ada, cradling her arm but managing a weak smile, wiping the tears from her cheek. “It’s just a few scratches. I think they used your hat Tommy”. Tommy retrieved his hat from the living room. There was indeed a spot of blood on one of the blades.

Was this just some sick opportunist from the shop, who took advantage when the lights when out? Or was this whole thing something more sinister? More planned?

“Let’s have a look” said Polly gently. “We’ll get you cleaned up, have a nice cup of tea”. Ada pulled the shirt away from her arm, and Tommy felt a wave of nausea come over him as he saw what was written there. Not just written, but cut into his sister’s skin.

מת

Death.

“What does it mean?” asked Ada. Tommy stayed silent, as his family gathered around to look, all stumped by the message. Once Ada was upstairs, with a hot bowl of soup in her lap, Tommy and Polly surveyed the damaged shop. Arthur had gone to check the electricity cables, but hadn’t a clue what he was doing, or what to look for, thus returning without any answers.

“Who” said Polly flatly. “Tommy, has this got anything to do with-” 

“There was a man” Tommy cut in. “Did you see him?” Polly gave him a questioning look. “On the table, he was standing right there” said Tommy, pointing.

“There were a lot of men” she said. “And how could he have hurt Ada if they weren’t in the same room?”. Tommy frowned. None of this made sense.

“Right, you’ll have to stop word going round about this, and fast. If it gets out that we can’t even keep the place running on a quiet evening without this sort of carnage, well” Polly sighed. “We can say goodbye to any takings on race day. Thomas, are you listening? Talk to Moss, find out if this was London or not. If it was them, you’ll need to-”

“I’m not a fucking kid anymore” said Tommy, slamming his fist onto the table. It was too much, Alfie, the man, Ada. “You can’t just hold my hand and tell me what to do”. Polly raised her eyebrows, unimpressed by his outburst.

“I haven’t held your hand since you were ten, Tommy Shelby. And as for telling you what to do, well, I don’t think you ev-”

“What did you say?” Tommy interrupted. His mouth had gone dry.

“What?” asked Polly, confused.

“Tell me what you just said” he demanded, nails sharp and digging against his palms.

“I haven’t held your hand since you were ten” she repeated. “Tommy, what’s going on with you?”

“You held it just then” he said. She shook her head.  

“You must have imagined it. This was an attack on our whole family, and if there’s something else bothering you I suggest you deal with it. Now, Arthur, right those tables, Scudboat, start gathering those slips”.

Tommy didn’t sleep that night, his mind churning with the events of the day. The person who’d hurt Ada _must_ be the same person who’d planted the collar. It was the only possible reasoning to this madness. They had access to the shop. So…a customer?

But how had they got into the living room if Finn had locked it? How had they known where his bedroom was, and most importantly, what motive would a customer have to torment him so? He’d told no one of the events on the beach outside of the family. Someone must have talked. Unless of course, they heard the news from someone else. Someone who’d dodged a bullet.

It was pitch black in his room, but every time Tommy closed his eyes he was staring at the silhouette of that man on the table. The man with the cane. His heart thudded. Could it have been Alfie? His back had been getting worse, sure, but Tommy was pretty confident he could still climb onto a table, unless the cancer prevented it. Whether that was actually true or not was a whole other matter, and just another in the growing list of questions Tommy didn’t know the answers to.

Alfie wouldn’t have hurt Ada. He wouldn’t.

But doubt crept into Tommy’s mind as he thought of Charlie’s kidnap, and Arthur’s near death experiences that came far too close.

A chill crept over him, and he shivered, pulling on his blanket. He breathed hot air over the tips of his fingers, rubbing them together. They’d felt numb since that evening, since those cold fingers had slipped between his. He’d just assumed they were Polly’s; she’d been the only other person in the office, and upon questioning, Charlie had insisted it wasn’t him. Could someone else have crept in under cover of the noise? To what end? And surely he could tell a man’s hand from a woman’s?

Alfie’s hands had been big, and covered in rings, the pads of his fingers rough from working. Not that Tommy still thought about his hands. Or any other part of him. He rolled over, huffing.

His mother’s lullaby was playing in his head again, and Tommy hummed along to the comforting notes for a while before he realised he was really hearing them.

The tinkling notes of the music box came from across his bedroom, which meant someone had taken it out, and was standing there, right now, at the foot of his bed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> This has all the stereotypical horror things in e.g. lights going out, the hand, the Harry Potter inspired 'writing on the arm' bit etc. but honestly I found this really hard to write so I hope you can forgive me for not being very imaginative
> 
> I’m not sure if/when I'll update this - I really want to give my other fics some attention and finish things off. But it was still fun to experiment with a darker genre!
> 
> Also, technically מת means ‘dead’ not ‘death’ but it sounded better
> 
> Okay I’ll stop rambling. Thank you again for reading! :)


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